


La Gaudière

by notoriousjae



Category: Ratched (TV)
Genre: 40's music, A lot of 40's music, Angst, Dancing, F/F, Fluff, Spoilers to season 1, and lesbians, cancer-mention, kind of, the angst isn't overwhelming but it's there, they love each other a lot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-19
Updated: 2020-10-19
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:01:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27095497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notoriousjae/pseuds/notoriousjae
Summary: Hospitals are much nicer with music, she thinks--especially the kind that makes her think of Gwendolyn’s shirt rolled up to the elbow.A few of the times Mildred Ratched and Gwendolyn Briggs found music between and around them, always dreaming of dancing, or something in-between.
Relationships: Gwendolyn Briggs/Mildred Ratched
Comments: 8
Kudos: 64





	La Gaudière

**Author's Note:**

> I recently watched through _Ratched_ and have a _very_ long-lasting love of the source material ( _One Who Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest_ ). After watching through the first season, I couldn't help but sit down and write something quickly for my favorite ship in a long, long time.

The music sifts through the hall, peaceful. And, while at a normally adequate volume for the small building, it's not nearly _quiet_. 

It’s infuriating.

Honestly, there are people who _work_ in this building. It certainly might be a _poor_ excuse for lodging, given the owner who _hovers_ over everyone’s shoulders like some swarming locust, leaning in close at their every breath to hopefully catch word of some salacious offense against God Himself, but it _does_ house hard-working, sleep-bound people who must go about their days. Sleep, clearly, is a requirement for this, which is why Mildred has no clue why someone would be so _inconsiderate_ as to bellow their music throughout the halls at this ungodly hour for all to suffer through.

Well, perhaps not an _ungodly_ hour.

Of course, the small antique clock perched on the edge of the scratched wood of her bedside table displays a conservative six o’clock in the evening, but Mildred had found herself at the hospital until quarter after two the night before...prior to waking up at six this current morning and working until an hour ago. She finds very little patience for the racket _despite_ the hour, given this.

Which, perhaps, is why she finds herself storming down the hallway in the silk of her sleep clothes despite the _scandalous_ nature of such a thing, pausing when she realizes that the music is coming from _one room_ in particular.

Of _course_ it's coming from one room in particular. 

And suddenly she’s outside of Gwendolyn Briggs' door in a nightgown, palm resting against the edge of it in pure hesitation, lips parting as she listens to the piano and violin dance like Grace Kelly might underneath the door.

_\--tomorrow. I’ll know our love was right. Kiss me—_

Work-sore fingers curl into a loose fist against the trim, turning around to rest weary shoulders against the surface, wondering what Gwendolyn might be doing inside. Listening with a half-turned bottle of scotch, soft features unsightly twisted downwards into a frown? Entertaining the governor, perhaps, talking of the tumultuous status of Edmond Tolleson, whose stained life is being snuffed out by a world’s unwillingness to offer him deserved mercy?

_\--teach me all that a heart should know—_

No, the Governor wouldn’t come here and wouldn’t make it past the _gargoyle_ guarding the entrance of the building even if he had and she's _certainly_ doubtful Gwendolyn might allow him in her bedroom in the evening, however early into the evening it might be.

Might she be entertaining someone _else_ , instead?

The thought dries Mildred’s mouth in the most _unpleasant_ of ways and though she shouldn’t care—she _shouldn’t_ —

The smell of water bubbling underneath a cauldron meant to _cure_ coats her tongue and makes it difficult to _breathe_ , remembering the frantic way eyes bat about the bathhouse a week prior, looking for respite or _mercy_ from the people meant to _help her—_

It tastes of _bile and regret--_

“Well, I’ll admit,” Mildred’s eyes snap open to see a familiar pair hovering a little above her and though the distance is respectable, it feels like there isn’t any air between them, at all. Gwendolyn Briggs, who has certainly not wound down for the night like Mildred Ratched has but _is_ standing here in this hallway with a buttoned shirt with the top-most clasps undone, sleeves rolled up to elbows and bare hands that curve around hips in the most _mortifying_ amusement. “This isn’t exactly how I expected you to show up on my doorstep, Ms. Ratched.”

Gwendolyn is watching Mildred watch _her_ and Mildred would never be outdone.

So she clears her throat before smoothing down the wrinkled bunch of her nightgown as if she had intended to wear it all day, easing up from the wall--away from that now-cracked door, music dancing a little louder into the dim lodging, now. It makes it almost seem alive underneath all of the mold and must.

_\--my darling, love me; don’t ever let me go—_

“Yes, well—” A beat, always so careful to _think_ before she talks before humming, calm, “Perhaps it should have been expected while holding a dance hour in your room.”

_\--kiss me, as though it were now or nev—_

“A dance hour?” It has the reverse affect—that amusement seems to grow, despite the hint of the frustration buried deep in Gwendolyn’s gaze. Mildred can see it. She would grasp at it and pull it out if she could—she would far prefer the other woman’s frustration to amusement at Mildred’s misfortune and lingering mortification. Gwendolyn looks up from Mildred to her door and back again before stepping closer, hand so _casually_ resting against the trim shoulders had found purchase in, maybe half a minute before.

There’s _certainly_ no air between them, Mildred’s certain of it, now, and the air that _did_ have the ill-fortune to linger might be pure oxygen—ignited with the _barest_ of sparks.

“Oh,” Gwendolyn _laughs_ , a little, a husky sound. “You don’t like the evening radio?”

“Not when I’m trying to sleep, no, I don’t.” Mildred sucks in a sharp breath but her voice is calm, “It’s very inconsiderate—”

“Oh, well I’m _terribly sorry_ to have inconvenienced you, Ms. Ratched—” And there’s that _frustration_ , getting closer, and Mildred decides she _doesn’t_ like it better than the amusement.

“Mrs. Briggs—”

“Miss.” It comes out a little sharp, Gwendolyn pushing off of the trim to stand tall in front of Mildred, “ _Miss_ Briggs. I’m not married, anymore.”

“A matter of your _own choice_ and does not concern me, so I fail to see why your tone is so sharp, _Miss._ Briggs.”

“Of course.” Gwendolyn removes herself completely and there’s a hint of _hurt_ where that frustration should be, “It had _nothing_ to do with you, why _would_ it—”

“Gwendolyn—" It’s far too familiar. Too close. Too _knowing_. And Mildred’s hand is reaching up of its own accord, not something even remotely planned. That _hurt_ wasn’t what she wanted, and it looks far too haunted on Gwendolyn’s delicate features, like the world has chiseled caverns out of the mountains of her cheeks. Mildred swallows, lips parting, and breathes a quiet sigh, “The music—”

“Right. I’ll shut it off.” Gwendolyn’s voice is sharper than a bayonete, pushing open the door and _God help her_ , Mildred’s hand comes up to the day-mussed fabric of a shoulder before retreating to rest on her lap, standing near the wall.

“I like it.” Any calmness in a nurse's exhausted, even voice is washed away by the way her hands twist so wistfully in her lap, tipping a chin upwards. Gwendolyn pauses, turning to look at a _strained acquaintance_ over her shoulder, hair falling from its bun in front of those haunted eyes. It’s a shame Mildred was never one for painting, really—they would make a lovely portrait.

There isn't a hint of red to be found in them, and so much of her life was soaked in red.

“I thought you were trying to sleep.”

_\--love me as though there were no tomorrow—_

“I was.” Mildred leans the rest of the way off of the wall to fully stand in front of her, now, and Gwendolyn’s eyes shamelessly take in her intimate nightgown in a way that makes a rarely-used heartbeat skip, just a little, before settling so devoutly on eyes. Perhaps they're not strained acquaintances, after all. “I was ready to give you a piece of mind for being inconsiderate when some of us have found ourselves unexpectedly in the middle of a night shift.”

“But?” Gwendolyn has pushed the door open fully and Mildred has no doubt that she would readily welcome her through it and, oh…oh, Mildred is struck by the desire for what might happen if she did.

“But I came closer…and thought it was lovely.” Mildred breathes instead of the thousand of other _perfectly acceptable_ replies that come to mind. “I thought you might be dancing, and suddenly didn’t want to interrupt. The night-shift didn't seem quite so important.”

Gwendolyn’s lips part and she steps closer and Mildred tries not to _breathe_ in case that’s what ignites that little, little air between them, after all.

“Would you like to come inside and dance, Mildred?” Gwendolyn's inviting hand is raised and Mildred’s hand raises up. Hovers over it. Stills in the air and when she looks up Gwendolyn looks so…anticipatory. She looks so _beautiful_ , the light from the hall casting a ghastly glow over both of them, but how might it be so possible for someone to absorb so much... _light_?

**_Yes_.**

\-- _oh, my darling love me; don’t ever let me go—_

“I appreciate the offer, Ms. Briggs, but I...should sleep. I…have an early morning tomorrow.” It’s a breath, not looking away from eyes even as the disappointment curves brows over them in a furrow, but Gwendolyn’s hand shifts upwards to barely brush along her palm, regardless. It’s…overwhelmingly warm and _soft_ and when Mildred breathes in, she _shivers,_ all the way from her shoulders to her fingertips to her bare, bare toes.

“We wouldn’t want anyone to get the wrong impression. Two girls dancing—” But there’s no bite in it, simply just…a _longing_ and for a moment—only a weak, pitiful moment—Mildred’s hand _quivers_ like a small child caught in the rain, trembling below a tree, before her fingers skim up to the other woman’s knuckles. Imagines how well her hand might fit there, or how well it might not. “I would like…” Gwendolyn sounds strained, leaning down a little closer, and Mildred wants to paint her cheek with warmth.

_\--love me—_

“I wish you would dance with me, Mildred.”

It must be the exhaustion—it must be the long work nights or the _worry_ or the _madness_ that comes with finding herself in all of this blood, lately—but her free hand raises up from bunched fabric by her hip to gently cup Gwendolyn’s cheek, feeling the way she leans into her. The way her breath catches and her hand, so soft, curls around Mildred’s own. It doesn’t feel possessive or over…cumbersome—it doesn’t _smother_ her like a man’s, or a sibling’s—it simply wraps around her like a warm sweater in a cool breeze. Inviting. Kind. _Giving_.

It's so...unexpected.

Mildred pulls away fully, arms clasping politely in front of her as she steps away.

“I’m going to bed. Thank you—” Mildred looks away so that the treacherous thing in her eyes might not be seen, but she has a feeling Gwendolyn sees it _anyways_ as she straightens, undoubtedly disappointed. Confused. At least Mildred isn’t the only one that finds herself in the predicament. Her breath hitches and Mildred might damn it were she not so focused on _leaving,_ before she never leaves, at all. “Thank you for being considerate, Ms. Briggs. Perhaps another time.”

“Of course.” Gwendolyn suddenly sounds far away as Mildred turns about on her bare feet, intent on heading back towards her own room. “Then I guess…sleep well, Ms. Ratched. Another time.”

Mildred does not deem it important to inform Gwendolyn that she never knew what _sleeping well_ meant.

An hour later, Mildred is fully wrapped in sheets, eyes staring mindlessly at the wall like it might be Gwendolyn on the other side, not a full room between them.

 _Another time_.

It sits next to her on the bed like a lover, but lingers _far longer_ than a lover ever does. The music sifts through the wall throughout the night until the radio sign-off many hours later, which is curious because Mildred knows for a _fact_ that Gwendolyn Briggs always sleeps around eight o’clock in the evening like clockwork—her position for the Governor requires a steadfast schedule, after all. She wakes at seven o'clock and sleeps at eight o'clock, so the music is certainly not routine.

But Mildred is glad for it because when she closes her eyes she imagines dancing, long after the music has stopped.

Perhaps...perhaps Gwendolyn is imagining dancing, as well.

And the next morning, fully rested and filling out paperwork with an intentionally flowing signature, the radio at the nurse’s station traces dances Nat King Cole through the waiting room like a painter's brush swabbed in delightful, bright colors.

And Mildred almost smiles.

Hospitals are much nicer with music, she thinks--especially the kind that makes her think of Gwendolyn’s shirt rolled up to the elbow.

\--

Mildred isn’t sure what to do with herself if she’s not helping flatten out rumpled hospital sheets around Gwendolyn’s unusually still form…especially when it’s Gwendolyn who’s stopped her from the flattening. There’s nothing _wrong_ with ensuring that the other woman is kept in impeccable conditions, she needs it to heal. She _deserves_ —

“Mildred,” It’s almost a _fond_ laugh—something so _extraordinary_ —that Mildred listens to it immediately, hands stilling underneath the warm weight of Gwendolyn’s fingertips, raising them up from the sheets to hold close to a gown-clad chest, their joined hands hovering in the air. It’s such a simple touch, yet feels so…intrusively intimate. “I think you’ve pressed them into submission.”

“I—” Features contort, the sound of the radio faint behind them, Tom Breneman’s voice lost beneath the strangled thump of her own heart. Who left that on? She's doubtful Gwendolyn Briggs is entranced by celebrity _gossip._ “Just…”

“Mildred.” Mildred lets out a huff through nostrils but startles when she looks up to see that the fondness doesn’t just seem to lay solely in Gwendolyn’s _voice_ , features soft, if still pale. Pale...but Gwendolyn seems to get her color back more and more each day and Mildred feels nothing but _relief_ at that fact. “It’s alright.” Gwendolyn says so simply and for a moment it _might be_. “Come sit down, rest for a bit. This is your break, isn’t it?”

“Yes and—”

“And normally you’re down the hall enjoying a bologna sandwich?” Gwendolyn looks _teasing_ and a chin ducks as Mildred tucks her lip between teeth looking a little _unbalanced_ for a moment, nearly close to a laugh.

“While I take my oath as a nurse very seriously, if that is a hint of jealousy in your voice, Ms. Briggs, I could certainly sneak you a piece of bologna.”

“I would’ve preferred that runaway nurse aimed a little further to the right.” Gwendolyn’s wit is sharp and immediate but Mildred’s lips purse, _not_ amused.

“That’s not funny.”

“Tell me about it, I feel like I’ve been… _shot_.”

Still, Gwendolyn is gently tugging her down and Mildred smooths out the bunches of the blue in her skirt before sitting next to her on the bed, eyes lingering on the bandage barely peeking out underneath the gown settled on a bare, butchered shoulder.

~~**What did you _do_ , Edmund?** ~~

“My company might not be as...floppy as bologna--I really have no other words to describe bologna--but it _would_ be delighted if you’d spend the lunch with me, regardless. And you don’t have to spend it doing work, or fussing. Just…sit with me?” Dark eyes are…hopeful and Mildred is so caught up in the memory of them being _terrified_ that she can’t find it within herself to refuse, barely relaxing into her seat along the bed, eyes settling on their hands, still joined, as they settle on Gwendolyn’s lap.

They sit in silence for a few minutes, Gwendolyn staring at Mildred and Mildred staring at their clasped blinds and the light kept at bay just behind their heavy weight, glowing white beneath the sky’s warmth.

 _Breakfast in Hollywood_ has ended and a lively piano has filled its absence, Bill Kenny’s voice curving around shoulders with a warmth that couldn’t hope to match the heat in Gwendolyn’s palm.

“I wanted to dance with you.” Mildred admits, turning away from the blinds to look at the radio, listening to a lively, almost youthfully naïve guitar plucking along sorrow.

_\--but when I think of you, another shower starts—_

“Me too. And the ball was _nice_ until the guard was... _murdered_ and the gun—”

“I wasn’t talking about the ball, although I…must admit, I wanted to dance with you there, as well.” She turns from the radio to take in the sight of eyes below her and watches the covered sunlight paint a hue of browns and greens over their surface.

A long moment passes and Gwendolyn’s eyes _shine_ , a glade in a forest.

“…Oh.”

Perhaps it’s the warmth of Gwendolyn’s hand that boldens her—or the fear that she might wake to an empty room, knowing the room two doors down is permanently empty, no music floating from the radio inside. Mildred’s hand _quivers_ in the air as it comes to curve around a cheek—soft. Pale. If she squeezed it, the blood would not come back to it nearly as quickly as it should and that thought only makes breath turn shaky, as well.

_\--into each life some rain must fall--_

“I wanted to dance with you that night more than anything.”

“I’d hoped you might.” Gwendolyn doesn’t ask why she hadn’t and Mildred knows, in this moment, that this woman is far too kind for her and she’s scared of the words that lodge in her throat—the confession that has no _place_ here.

_\--into each heart some tears must fall--_

“You had hoped I would dance with you? Or had you hoped that I wanted nothing more than to do it?”

“Both.” Gwendolyn is leading her down, but not to the softness of lips, like Mildred had feared. She’s leaning her down to rest their foreheads together, and something taut in the straight spine that holds up the flag of a nurse’s uniform in sharp lines of blue…unravels itself, tangling fingers tighter with Gwendolyn as a free-- _free_ \--hand pets down that wonderful, pale, alive cheek repeatedly—strokes it like something precious.

 _Swallows_ that confession down so that it might not ruin _anything_ between them.

“Well…both were true.” Mildred admits. “Tell me, who leads when two women dance?” It’s a smiling question, eyelashes fluttering against Gwendolyn’s cheek, sitting up on the now-rumpled sheets she had spent so long straightening with restless fingertips. But her hands seem to not feel too restless, at the moment, raising up to gently sift through soft hair, instead, like she can't stop touching her.

She doesn't want to stop touching her. 

\-- _but too much of that stuff is fallin’ into mine--_

“Whoever wants to lead. I guess whoever picks the song. And...if the song is chosen for us...then whoever moves first."

"Tell _me_ ,” A hint of eagerness floods Mildred, breaking the calm that she had barely managed to retain, “How would we dance?”

“I guess—” Gwendolyn moves to shift with a sharp breath to a nurse's _stern_ look.

“Careful—”

“You’re right.” And there’s something else to her voice, then—something in the _way_ she says it, and it takes a moment for Mildred to realize the injured press secretary is looking solely at her lips as she talks. “I’ll be careful.” Gwendolyn clears her throat as Mildred leans a little up, the fingers curling around her own _faint_ in strength, but _there._ To keep her there, perhaps. To keep her close. Wrapping around her like Mildred might turn to mist in the morning air. “I…would change it from this to…Glenn Miller.”

“Lively then.” Mildred’s voice is calm but a smile is _close_ , buried beneath her hum.

“I would tug you up from the bed and we would both spin around the room and laugh until everyone in the hall became _suspicious_ of how happy we were.”

“Hmm, but we wouldn’t care, we’d be so swept up in the music that we would forget ourselves.”

“I would spin you around in the corner, probably a little clumsily, and we’d both trip and fall—”

“But you’d catch me.” Mildred offers.

“Of course I would, I would never let you fall.” Sincerity there and Mildred can hear her breath grow a little ragged so she leans over, only for a moment, to help replace the bag that contains the _heavier_ drip into Ms. Briggs’ line, knowing she needs _relief_ , untangling herself before a hand reaches up to catch her by the wrist. And there it is, again—not restrictive. Simply…soft. Kind. A question, not a command, and it’s enough to make Mildred's _heart_ race, not just leap. Not just skip. Run like a _marathon_ is to be won.

It’s enough that Mildred is almost quick to explain—to right this obvious confusion—because she is certainly not running away from this conversation (this time), simply doing what needs to be _done_ , but she’s cut off by the look in Gwendolyn’s eyes.

The music has long since changed to something soft—something _gentle_ —and Mildred doesn’t hear a word of it.

“And the trumpet would swell and you would be back in my arms and I’d be so taken with you that I would kiss you, Mildred. Do you understand that?”

Mildred’s breath sharpens and she feels the way Gwendolyn’s pulse picks up pace beneath her thumb and she understands it _perfectly_ —she’s _always_ understood it, even if she hadn’t the words for such a thing—and her eyes flick down to parted, cracked lips. And, oh, she—

She—

“Perhaps someday,” Her voice is quiet and foreign and gentle—breathless—as she boldly leans forward to curl the hand that had been on Gwendolyn’s cheek around her uninjured shoulder, the most she’s ever given, “We’ll have a chance to dance together, again, then.”

"...another time."

Gwendolyn smiles and Mildred wonders what nurse slipped into the room and opened the blinds to let the light inside the room.

She's too taken by it to do anything but murmur, hesitating before she leans down to rest her head along the uninjured shoulder in front of her, Gwendolyn's hands clenching before the one without the IV gently skims along her hair, mussing a bun she'll have to fix before continuing her rounds.

"Another time."

\--

The night has set shadows on the white, unfamiliar walls of a home Mildred had never lived in, but feels a certain _connection_ to, given it's the first place she’s felt quite so _alive_.

_\--what’s not to love about you—_

Long sleeves of a shirt hang off the back of a chair in the unlit dining room, the living room’s wide expanse cleared of all tables and couches as the record player dances lively big bands along the ceiling like a celebration. A hat sets along one of the couches pressed against the wall, hastily discarded given the fact that it’s laid upon its side, a carefully-pressed jacket on top of it. Two sets of heels are kicked underneath the fabric, barely peeking out from its gray protector, lit by the lamps adorning a bookshelf.

_\--heaven and earth adore you—_

Breathing is heavy—panting—a faint, consistent rustling on the carpet as feet move, two women spinning around on top of the bunching, carefully laid out décor of a rug as a drum bounces up and up and up in tempo. 

Mildred can’t remember the last time she _danced_ , let alone quite so lively. Has she ever? The room is full of music and the sound of their breaths—smiles, large and small. Lighter hair is a _fury_ and Mildred can only imagine how her own looks, hellish and unkempt and… _beautiful_. Gwendolyn looks _beautiful_ —sleeves bunched up to the elbows and pants rolled up, as well, so that they can move as quickly as they might. Mildred's skirt is scandalously ruffled and bunched up at her hips as they dance and dance and _dance_ , sweat and red cheeks and sliding hands.

“Where are you going?” Gwendolyn untangles their fingers to move over to the record player in the corner, its loud horn stopping abruptly as she lifts the needle.

“Wait a second—”

Mildred is a little dizzy, following after her, stumbling on her feet. _Winded_. Suddenly she understands why all the girls in the platoon wanted to _dance_ on leave, not make notes about charts until the sun came over the smoldering tents.

“Gwendolyn?”

“One second, Ms. Ratched.” She’s smiling over her shoulder in a way that causes Mildred to pause in her steps, bare feet settling on the plush carpet that they’ve certainly worn in through the night. 

The record skips before it lights up the space with something familiar and lively. Mildred might look pensive—inquisitive—for a moment, chin tipping upwards before she places the song.

Glenn Miller.

And what’s to make matters delightfully worse, Gwendolyn sashays her hips towards Mildred on the white carpets already tangled from the sharp movements of their feet and—

Mildred...laughs.

It’s a quiet, soft noise and startles them both, Mildred’s hand snapping up to lips as if to stymie the whole thing before it might escape up between them.

Gwendolyn comes closer as the trumpet, lively, blares between them, the woman's motions far softer than the music as she guides Mildred’s hand down, knuckles skimming down her cheek not even a second after, though it takes much longer than a second for her to curve her face.

“I’ve never heard you laugh.” Gwendolyn murmurs—barely heard over the blaring noise. This music, certainly--well, no one would have been able to sleep through at the inn, at all.

“I…” And for once, she’s at a loss for words, leaning over into knuckles, tongue darting over lips—still tasting Gwendolyn there--cheeks flushed from exertion and...something else she's only felt here, in this knowing embrace. “…can’t remember the last time I have.”

“Well…that’s not gonna do.” Gwendolyn says simply before spinning Mildred _suddenly_ , catching her before she can fall, pressing them both up into the corner near the jostling record player, whose lively trumpet only grows louder and louder between them. Holding Mildred so _securely_ that knees could fail and the other woman would keep her lifted up high.

A gasp—that laugh settling between them against parted lips—warmth spreading into heat as fingers raise up from hips to cup cheeks, holding her captor close.

Gwendolyn doesn’t tell her to laugh or smile like so many before her have—simply holds her up against the wall and so _gently_ whispers:

 _I love you_.

Before the trumpets swell and their eyes meet and Gwendolyn kisses her and doesn’t stop.

\--

The birds and sunlight gently dancing through the windows is a far more pleasant wake-up call than a nosey hostess had ever been, but Mildred aims to make it a little more pleasant.

Fingers sift through light hair, lightly raking at a skull as she leans down towards an ear, the hair thinner beneath her touch, these days. “Gwendolyn, darling—”

A sleepy hum is the response, a body that’s grown _frailer_ this year shifting closer thoughtlessly. _Immediately_. Seeking warmth from Mildred’s body like Mildred is a person who might _provide_ it and, well…perhaps she has, for only the person against her. Perhaps Mildred _can_ be warm to someone who knows how to seek it.

To Gwendolyn.

“Hmm…five more minutes.” Gwendolyn’s voice is muffled into the fabric of Mildred’s bunched nightgown.

“That sounds suspiciously like something that you said five minutes ago.”

“We don’t have to get up for anything anymore, remember?” But Gwendolyn is sprawling backwards on the bed like perhaps she’s been awake this entire time and there’s almost a hint of a smile on Mildred’s lips, knuckles skimming down gaunt cheeks. “You were the one with the bright idea for me to run away with you.”

“And it’s worked quite splendidly, don’t sound so dour.” Mildred tutts but it holds such little weight with Gwendolyn smiling at her underneath so much soft sunlight and it’s easy, just for a moment, to not _wonder_ —

_Edmund--_

Did she lock the door?

Fingers are trembling from exertion as they cup Mildred’s cheeks, immediately turning her from her thoughts to the woman below her, guiding their lips down together in a long, _lazy_ kiss, full of sunlight and the birds chirping outside.

“So _why_ ,” Gwen’s smile is something Mildred can _taste_ and it’s nearly infectious as slim fingers reach over to turn on the radio before turning back to Mildred entirely, inevitably drowning out anything to follow in case their next-door neighbors are as nosey as their old hostess used to be in Lucia. “Would I want to get out of bed?”

“So that you don’t waste away under—”

“Oh, I don’t plan on wasting away.” And that smile is something _different_ , now—downright _scandalous_ and—

Mildred’s breath catches, the foreign big band from the radio becoming…familiar. Warm. The sound wrapping around them even as fingers bury in hair.

“The doctor _did_ recommend exercise…” It’s a _moan_ as lips chase down the column of a curving throat, feeling teeth so, so lightly sink into her quickening pulse. It’s nothing like how she had thought it would be, truthfully—nothing like how she had been lead to believe in her youth, or by lovers. No—

Gwendolyn’s hands curve so lovingly up her shoulders, nails raking along skin as a nightgown bunches along with it.

It’s not the same at all.

Mildred _laughs_ , this quiet thing that’s a little _freer_ these days, if not quiet as unrestrained as Gwendolyn’s, when the nightgown gets caught around her chin, both of them nearly falling off the bed in an attempt to get it off.

It’s like _music._

Gwendolyn’s breath is more labored than it used to be, but there’s still so much _life_ in her eyes as fingers curve around her cheeks. Today they won't be interrupted by nausea or pain or discontent. Not _today._ They’ve heard about a new treatment— _mistletoe_ —and will be heading a little further south, next week. Gwendolyn’s still fighting—always fighting—and they’ve kept it, together. All of it. They’ve found a way. They’ll always find a way, Mildred is _certain_ of it, and she’s been so certain of so _little,_ other than this.

“I love you—” Mildred gasps in her ear, both of their fingers tangled and pressed into the sheets, her own breathing labored, now, knees tucked about hips and the soft melody of a sweetheart’s love melody dancing in-between them. “Gwen—” Knees tent and toes curl and Gwendolyn’s eyes are sheened with sweat and understanding and _pleasure_. “Gwen—” Mildred isn’t a particularly _vocal_ lover, but she only says her name like this _here_ , before a moan dances along her bare shoulder, in kind.

_Gwen--_

It’s like _music_ and Mildred _prays_ the song never ends.

\--

“You think—”

“I _know_.” Mildred cuts off, voice calm and _measured_ , the radio next to them particularly loud in order to cover the sound of their conversation, in case someone is listening outside. Gwendolyn stopped teasing Mildred about her being _paranoid_ over a year prior after Mildred had finally informed her _all_ of what had transpired at the state hospital the other woman had been shot at nearly two and a half years ago.

It is perhaps a little petty that it’s such a triumph that _Gwendolyn_ is the one to turn on the radio to cover their voices, now.

“You _know_ ,” Gwendolyn sighs over the sound of a snare drum. The newspaper is splayed over bare knees, the moonlight seeping into fair skin with a familiar, cool sheen. She absorbs the moon like lesser people absorb the sunlight—she absorbs everything beautiful and _glows_ , if given the chance. Gwendolyn, after all, is the most beautiful person Mildred’s met, “That he killed those nurses in Colorado to—” There’s a long moment of silence, Mildred’s eyes having settled on the small table by their bedside long ago. “Mildred, no.”

Gwendolyn knows Mildred as well as Mildred knows Edmund.

Does that mean that Gwendolyn might someday meet the same fate?

“I have to find him.”

“We have different definitions of the word ‘have’.” Gwendolyn tosses the newspaper far, far away, and neither of them look when it nearly knocks over the radio.

“Oh, do not be _petulant_ , Gwendolyn.”

“Well, we do have a _completely_ different definition of it, clearly.”

“I’m going.” Mildred says simply, with a tone of _utter_ finality.

There’s a long moment of silence that stretches between them—a silence that even the music can’t seem to touch.

“So, I’ll pack my bag and—”

“No.” It’s firm and calm—always calm—but when her chin tips up, maybe Gwendolyn can surmise something out of the ordinary from the dip of a chin that the rest of the world might not accurately devise. And altogether Mildred might feel as elusive as the ripple cascading over a once-still pond, its ridges rolling and disappearing into its own depths and taking any hint of sunshine skimming along the surface along with it. “This is something I...must do on my own.”

“I see.” Gwendolyn’s voice is measured and _searching_ , fingertips pushing up from the dip of Mildred’s chin to her cheek, burying curling fingers in hair she so effortlessly loosens from its vice. Red cascades about her fingers like a waterfall of silken blood and Mildred cannot help but turn into the heat and familiarity of it. “Well...that seems _stupid_.”

“Gwendolyn.” Mildred huffs out through flaring nostrils against skin in a noise that sounds suspiciously like a laugh before those warm, wonderful hands are guiding her closer, the sound of the music wrapping around both of them softly in the background. Trumpets sound the same in any language, it seems, they're just played in different ways.

“I’m just pointing out the obvious.”

“It is _not_ obvious.”

“Oh, so you running off to the middle of the country—where was it? Colorado? I’m sorry, not the _middle_ of, on the _completely other side of the country_ —we just _escaped_ to _hunt_ a man, _however dear_ to you, that just killed a group of people that look suspiciously exactly like you…that being crazy is... **not** obvious?”

Mildred scowls, never content at being _bested_.

“…why, no, it’s not.” Mildred’s response is perhaps petulant and the _look_ it earns turns into faint amusement. And maybe that moment--that moment of Gwendolyn's features, just for a moment, looking _amused_ , is worth the dalliance into youth. Gwendolyn likes youthful things, after all. Like…puppet shows and candy and _laughing_ into her neck in the quiet coming sun cascading over their sheets in the morning. She likes making love to Glenn Miller and loves Mildred with the utter abandonment and lack of reservation that a child might.

It makes Mildred want to do the most _ridiculous_ thing: cry. So she does. There's not much she hides from Gwendolyn these days.

Just how _frightened_ she's been.

Gwendolyn cups both cheeks in her hands and shifts along the bed so that downcast eyes are forced to look at her, swallow thick between both of them. Gwendolyn _is_ crying too, it seems, and perhaps that’s enough for Mildred to do it, as well.

“He’ll…he’ll hurt you.” It comes out small—weak, “Perhaps everyone was right, at the start—perhaps he wasn’t worth sav—”

“Mildred. _Mildred,_ no.” Thumbs are underneath eyes, their foreheads coming to rest against each other in something so _familiar_ , now—so comforting. “You did _everything_ you could and if you’re going after him, I’ll be _damned_ if I’m going to sit here and do nothing. Mildred—” Gwendolyn cuts off her protest before it can even rise up between them, “I’m not losing you now.”

The sentence stops any protest in its tracks, opening up eyes to search every inch of the woman she _loves_ through blurred vision and tears that track into both of their palms. “Gwendolyn—”

“Mildred.” Gwendolyn’s voice is _firm_ , unyielding. “You told me that we would do this together and that meant _all_ of this. You helped me with my fight—you helped me learn how to _live_ , again. Fully. _Completely_. And I hope—” That unyielding voice cracks, “I hope I’ve done the same for you.”

“You have.” It’s immediate from Mildred, hands curling over wrists, holding Gwendolyn close. 

“Then we’re doing _this_ together, too. I’m coming with you, you hear me? Let me _help_ you. You’re not alone, anymore. Mildred—” Eyes close again and Gwendolyn gently _shakes_ her until their eyes meet, music softly dancing over both of them, “Mildred. You’re _never_ alone, I’m with you. I’m _always_ with you.”

Mildred’s body doesn’t know what else to do, it seems.

She cries _harder_.

And Gwendolyn holds her until the sun falls, the radio long since signed off for the evening with its polite closing call, and they leave underneath the silent blanket of night. 

\--

The white halls are cold—unfeeling—a _familiar_ isolation as the pills rattle in the small cup resting in an unfurled, knowing palm. Two loudspeakers hang on the wall outside of the nurse's station, their consistent music a soothing melody to the idle chatter from the recreation room. A nice, lovely underflow to shuffling feet and far-away, stilted, shuffling cards. The viewing window into the white room’s glass pane has recently been repaired—for the _second_ time—and is cracked open to allow sound to filter from the main room inside only after the pills have finished being sorted. A nurse can never be too careful. Meticulous fingers wrap around the bending curve of the nearby microphone, calm voice overlaying the soft piano.

“Medication time, gentlemen.”

Eyes flick upwards—settle on one man in particular in the corner, whose eyes remind her of Edmund. It might be _infuriating_ if she wasn't quite so intimately familiar with the effort it took to change a man's ill-temperament. 

“Mr. McMurphy,” Nurse Ratched calmly hums over the line, waiting until he looks up, furious and _trapped_. Perhaps she’ll be able to help him in a way Edmund never understood--in the way only one _woman_ had, whose fingertips had slid into the gaps between Mildred and filled her with music and quiet laughter. “Medication time.”

He shuffles towards the crowd of men lined politely up in front the window, obnoxiously pushing his way to the front before holding out his hand. Impetuous. Like a _child._

The medication rattles as she drops the small cup into his palm, regardless.

" _All_ of it, Mr. McMurphy."

He doesn't--he pockets one--and she crushes it and slips it into his dinner, instead.

Later at night, all the men in the tub room and thankfully far from her sight for the time being, sifting through the cigarettes and cash to keep them from _gambling_ it all away so wastefully—so uselessly—eyes flick over towards the stand proudly displayed in the corner, carried across oceans and countries and homes over the past decade. Carefully, she changes the record, gently turning down the volume on the speakers in an _intentional_ display, making a mental note to raise it prior to Mr. McMurphy’s return, lest his list of insufferably inconsiderate complaints might be recklessly soothed. He’ll learn how to calm, soon. He needs it—peace. Music. _Softness_. It will help his soul, she’s certain of it.

Baseball has never medically helped _anyone,_ and she's not about to let him claim it will. The music will do just fine.

The trumpet is lively in the half office as the head nurse glides over towards the cigarettes, a worn Glenn Miller album sounding through the small space and barely leaking into the gentlemen’s empty beds. The cigarettes scuff along the table, soon sorted into reasonable piles for rationing. And after all piles are sorted and all pills are counted, Mildred looks towards the empty room ahead, glass securely locked, and listens to the album wrap around her like a warm embrace.

Hospitals are much nicer with music, she thinks--especially the kind that makes her think of Gwendolyn’s shirt rolled up to the elbow.

And for a moment—just a moment—Mildred’s fingers spread over the counter as she smiles, eyes closing, knowing she’ll be _home_ soon. 

**Author's Note:**

>  **La Gaudière** : _n._ the glint of goodness inside people, which you can only find by sloshing them back and forth in your mind until everything dark and gray and common falls away, leaving behind a constellation at the bottom of the pan—a rare element trapped in exposed bedrock, washed there by a storm somewhere upstream.  
> For music referenced in this work:
> 
>  _Love Me As Though There Were No Tomorrow_ , **Nat King Cole**   
> _Into Each Life Some Rain Must Fall_ , **Ella Fitzgerald and the Ink Spots**   
> _Sing, Sing, Sing_ , **Chris Tomlin**  
>  _Maybe_ , **The Inkspots**
> 
> Thank you so much for reading and please tell me what you think! I intentionally left it open-ended and would love to hear your thoughts.


End file.
